


Crime with Claire

by grey2510



Series: Convos with Crowley [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack as in there's no reason for these characters to ever meet, Gen, One Shot, Snark, hand wavy canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11368980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Crowley teams up with Claire on a heist because, honestly, it's a miracle any of these bloody hunters can do anything without him around to save their hides. You're welcome.





	Crime with Claire

"What is it with you flannel-loving morons and kicking hornets’ nests you have no business kicking?" Crowley says as he appears in the passenger seat of the horrible little hatchback.

The girl in the passenger seat, understandably startled, drops the binoculars she’d been holding as she whips her head around to face him, simultaneously pulling a knife out from under her jacket. Not that it’d do her any good, but Crowley would still rather not have to repair his suit—meat or otherwise.

"Who the hell are you?" she snarls, brandishing the weapon.

"Who the hell am I? Obvious pun aside, I’m hurt—I would have thought you’d have heard of your Uncle Crowley."

" _You’re_ Crowley?" Claire Novak blinks, but doesn’t lower the knife.

Crowley smiles. "Ah. So you have heard of me. All good things, I’m sure."

"What do you want?" There’s still a good deal of open hostility in the girl’s voice, but Crowley knows she’ll come around eventually; they always do.

"For starters, for you to put away the dagger—you do know it’s useless against me." He pauses a moment and is slightly mollified when Claire doesn’t put the weapon away, _per se_ , but does at least rest it on her thigh instead of pointing it at him. "I suppose that’ll do for now. At least it’s not that angel sword you have tucked away in that heap of lord-knows-what you call a backseat."

Her blue eyes widen, and Crowley tries not to be disconcerted by the familiarity of the expression. "How do you know about that?"

"Please." Crowley waves her off. "Now, as I was saying, what I want is for you to survive this assuredly dastardly caper so that I can go about my day—well, night—in relative peace."

She crosses her arms and peers at him. "You, a demon—"

"King of Hell, no less."

"—want me to live."

"Not even asking for a soul," he adds with an innocent grin.

"Why?"

Crowley sighs, eyeing the mansion across the street from them, hidden in the night’s shadows behind impressively old oak trees. "Because whatever MacGuffin you need, it won’t matter one whit if your guts end up redecorating the front parlour. And I really don’t fancy facing any of your parental figures if they were to ever find out I was involved or could have prevented it."

"Oh. Great. So you just don’t want to piss off the Winchesters? Thanks." She huffily slouches back against her seat.

"While I have no desire to ever cross Squirrel, in particular, when he’s in Papa Bear mode," Crowley concedes, "I suspect he would not be my biggest concern."

"Cas?"

Crowley snorts. "Feathers can bloody well shove it. No, the good sheriff...may not be the most forgiving person, shall we say."

She smirks. "You’re afraid of Jody?"

"You’re not?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Good point." She looks at him again. "Ok, well if you’re gonna hang around and annoy me—"

"Sticks and stones, love."

"—might as well make you useful. So, what’s the deal, what do you know about this place?"

"Didn’t _anyone_ ever teach you to do your homework?" he vents. "Surely Uncle Moose told you to crack open a book at least once."

Claire scowls. "I _did_ do my homework. There’s nothing on her ‘cept property deeds and auction records. That’s why I’m here scoping it out. ‘Sides, I already got the ‘don’t hunt like a dumbass’ speech from Dean. I’m good without round two."

"Ah, Dean, so much more than a pretty face, eh?" Claire ignores him, although he does note the look of childish disgust that flashes over her face. "Well, if you really are in the dark, there’s a reason Ms. Tabitha McCray, our supposed reclusive widow, isn’t popping up in your undoubtedly thorough search. She’s four hundred years old—looks remarkably good for her age, I might add—and is a former client."

"Client?"

"People always assume the Crossroads are only about souls. Do you have any idea how many priceless items crossed my path? Ms. McCray was one of my best buyers."

"So you know your way around?" Claire asks, finally interested.

He shrugs. "Not exactly, but I am familiar with the types of security she would employ, and how a thief might get around them." He gazes at the mansion, almost lost in thought for a moment. "You know, in another life, I’m sure I would have made a brilliant insurance investigator."

"Uh huh," Claire says, cutting into his thoughts.  

"What are you even stealing?"

She purses her lips. "I don’t trust you."

"Wise choice, even if I _am_ trying to help." Crowley would press the issue, but honestly, it doesn’t really matter. If whatever it is she wishes to steal is something she shouldn’t get her hands on, he’ll deal with it when the time comes. "So what bit of derring-do have you planned for this evening’s entertainment? I can only hope the next generation has moved beyond the kind of seat of one’s pants planning your elders are known for."

"Um," Claire shrugs. "Break in. Steal it. Get out."

"A masterful plan. One for the ages, truly."

She scowls. "You got a better one?"

"I always have a better one. Mine, for instance, has the crucial step of not getting caught or killed."

She raises an eyebrow. "Wow. You hurt yourself thinking that one up?"

He gives her a look. "Is that grade-A wit natural or did you catch it from the Winchesters? The world will never know."

"Why am I not stabbing you?"

"Another beautiful example. Well," he says, reaching for the door handle, "shall we case the joint?"

Claire rolls her eyes with the epic proportions that only teen girls seem able to achieve. Well, teen girls and Dean Winchester...or is that a redundant statement? But, she does open her door and climb out into the heavy summer night’s air. Reaching into the backseat of her car, she grabs a small black backpack and slings it over her shoulders.

Like every good clichéd mansion setting for a heist, Ms. McCray’s property is set back a bit from the road behind ornate wrought-iron gates.

"Guessing the fence goes around the whole property, huh?" Claire says after pacing along the perimeter for a few dozen metres. "Is it warded?"

"No," Crowley shakes his head. "Tabitha will have saved that for later. Hard to do business if your guests can’t enter the property."

"I thought you said you’d never been here?" She eyes him. "If you’re lying to me—"

"The last deal I made with Ms. McCray, electricity was the hot new thing. Not to mention the fact we were in a different bloody country!" Honestly, these damned hunters with their bloody fucking prejudices and—

She raises and eyebrow. "Jeez. Anyone ever tell you you’ve got, like, zero chill?"  

He ignores her and continues to reassess the situation. "Well, since they’re not warded—"

"Either you zap us in or we climb," she says with a frankly overconfident nod.

"‘We climb…’" he scoffs. "No, I’ll save the foolhardy heroics to those who think a ‘bespoke suit’ has something to do with words, thank you very much."

Claire just fixes him with a deadpan slow blink. "Ok, so...zap away then."

"Of course," he says, raising his fingers as if to snap them. "That is, if your plan includes being puppy chow."

"Huh?"

He tries to repress his smug grin and instead points to what look like decorative statues of dogs standing guard along the driveway inside the fence. A careful eye, however, would notice the summoning sigils etched along their base.

"Cross those uninvited and you’ll have two Hellhounds with a new favorite chew toy."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "Can you control them?"

"No, they’re not mine, nor have they been given orders to obey me—I would assume, at least. And while I’m sure my Juliet would enjoy a tussle, it would rather ruin this stealth-noir vibe."

Considering this, Claire nods. "Good point."

"Thank you."

But then a smirk graces her features. "So, you’re worried about a vibe?"

"I’m nothing if not genre-savvy."

"Awesome. So how’re we gonna genre-savvy our way past? Throw a stick, hope they wanna play fetch?"

Hunters. No imagination or self-preservation. It’s a wonder the world’s still spinning and working in (relatively) good order.

"Or, we could disguise ourselves and avoid triggering the sigils all together," he says dryly.

Claire groans. "You could have just _said_ that."

She’s not wrong, but Crowley enjoys holding all the cards for as long as possible—a girl can’t give away all her secrets at once, after all.

"Back in a tick," he says, snapping his fingers.

He would hope that she doesn’t do anything stupid while he’s gone, but that would imply he cares.

Which he does not.

Obviously.

A quick jaunt to one of his storage units nets him goofer dust and ingredients for hex bags that should render them undetectable to the Hellhounds and summoning sigils. He is only gone for perhaps five minutes but one would think it’s been hours from the waves of indignation and annoyance absolutely radiating from the girl.

"Where the hell did you go?" she snaps.

Completely unperturbed by the adolescent wrath, he simply holds up the hex bag ingredients and begins to put them together.

"I said I’d be back. I don’t lie to my partners," he insists, tying up one of the bags with black string. "Unlike some nameless feathered prats I know."

He would have thought the girl might want to commiserate, but either she is far better adjusted than she lets on or perhaps it's time he— _shudder_ —forgives, or at least moves on from, Castiel's past betrayals. Crowley doesn't dwell on that for more than the fleeting second the thought passes through his mind, lest he stir up any of those pesky feelings he most certainly does not have.

"Y’done?" She crosses her arms, looking entirely over this whole situation.

"Are you?" he retorts.

Huh. Apparently Castiel’s smiting glare is actually a Novak holdover. The more you know.

He tosses her an assembled hex bag, which she catches with a scrunch of her nose. He can’t blame her: it’s hardly potpourri.

" _Now_ we can zap away." With a snap, he lands them on the front steps of the house. The door is obnoxiously large, made of dark stained wood and likely several inches thick. Crowley would hazard a guess that even the delicate-appearing red panes set into the door are made of sterner stuff than traditional stained glass. A security camera peeks at them from above the ornate door frame, but a quick flick of the wrist in that direction and the camera sparks and dies.

Post-teleportation, Claire steadies herself on the edge of the steps and blinks, looking around. "You couldn't get us inside?"

Crowley shrugs. He likely could have, if he'd wanted to. But this isn't his gig and other than ensuring that Winchester 2.0 doesn't die horribly, he isn't terribly concerned with the success of her mission. Not to mention, it's good for her to have to work for it. Can't have everything handed to you on a silver platter. It's character building, or whatever they call it.

"Where's the fun in that?" he asks. "Besides, Blondie, if I intend to continue this partnership—one time deal that it may be—I want to see what skills said partner can bring to the table. I have no interest in carrying the team."

"Whatever." Elbowing him aside, Claire pulls out a lockpick set and hunches over the knob. She bites her lower lip as she works and her brows knit in concentration. "Should just blow up the door…" she says under her breath. "Be easier."

"Castiel would be so proud." Dean, too, Crowley thinks, even though for some reason it's the angel who has always had a vendetta against doors in particular. Dean just likes blowing things up. Those two dolts were made for each other.

It's a long three or four minutes of the girl fiddling with the picks and levers. Television lies: it's rarely as smooth and instantaneous a process as it appears. Crowley wonders if he should teach the girl some magical shortcuts, but tamps down that thought; it's a slippery slope, that one, and who knows what the mini-hunter would then discover. He'd probably have to upgrade all of his security as it'd only be a matter of time before the Winchesters got wind of it. Honestly, it's nearly a disgrace they _haven't_ figured out these tricks yet, given the magical mother lode they're sitting on in that Batcave of theirs, but if they haven't learned, Crowley won't be the one to teach them. They might be fighting on the same side, more or less, these days, but that doesn't mean Crowley is going to give up any advantages he has stored up should the relationship go sour.

Finally, the lock clicks and Claire turns the knob. The door swings open easily on well-oiled hinges, despite its weight, revealing a tastefully and expensively decorated foyer: gleaming marble floor, white paneled walls with intricate moulding, paintings that would make the curator at the Louvre salivate—or panic, given that the ones in Tabitha McCray's home are the actual originals. Crowley would know: one of his first deals with her was for Delacroix's _Women of Algiers_ , which greets them from the left wall. He smiles to himself at the memory—ah, youth—and at the knowledge that she still has the piece.

Claire looks around in appraisal. "Nice digs. I mean, can't really compare to my sweet motel room, but it's decent."

Crowley ignores her inane comment. "Out of curiosity, have you any idea where your unnamed priceless treasure might be located?"

She nods. "It should be in the library, he said."

"He?"

The girl's eyes go wide, realizing she's said too much. "No one."

"Aw, don't be shy, my dear. So what fine lad has caught your eye?" He grins, cat-like. So he's always enjoyed gossip. Sue him.

Claire scowls, crinkling up her nose. "Ugh. No. He's a client. Friend. Whatever. Not...not like _that._ "

But before he can follow up with more questions, toenails click across marble tile in an adjoining room. Claire doesn't notice, and the reason becomes apparent when a Hellhound—far more domesticated than the ones set to guard the property, it would seem—trots into the foyer, sniffing the air expectantly.

The door is still open, Crowley realizes belatedly, and the pup has come to see who's home.

"Claire," he whispers, "stay very, very still."

Her head whips to him in the exact opposite of his command. "What?" she hisses.

"A Hellhound. Tabitha has a pet."

"What?!" Her eyes grow wide and search the room, looking right past the beast. "But the hex bags?"

"He can't see, smell or hear us, but I do believe he has noticed the door."

"What do we do?"

"Good question." His mind whirs, calculating odds and schemes. "You say you know where to find your Holy Grail?"

She nods, slowly. Her arms are stiff by her sides, her back ramrod straight. Internally, he sighs to himself. He can't believe he's doing this. And people say he can't be noble. So much for staying genre-savvy...

"Well, cupcake, don't waste your chance."

"Wait, wh—"

Whatever she says, Crowley misses it as he snaps his fingers and lands himself on the third floor in what appears to be a spare bedroom.

"Whoops," he says to himself as he points a finger in the direction of a gold and mahogany mirror, attached to a beautiful antique dresser. 17th century French, if he had to guess. The whole ensemble tips forward, away from the wall. The crash of the dresser with the shattering of the mirror is thunderous, and from two stories below, he hears the Hellhound bark. He's not sure how quick the pup will make it up here—wee Hellhounds, particularly ones raised as pets, are hardly the same caliber of trackers as their elders—but he knows he only has moments. Another snap of his fingers, and he's in a second story study. He waits, with his ear cocked in the direction of the spare bedroom, until he hears the Hellhound bark and claw into that room. A flick of his wrist and the grandfather clock before him topples over with a delightful, ear-splitting clang of gears, chimes, and pendulums.

Next, he goes down to the first floor, quickly finding the library. Claire is in the hall, having clearly just located the room in the maze of a mansion. She's got a can of spray paint and her knife, and has been working diligently on the warding that she can see, the subtle runes and sigils worked in the moulding and wallpaper around the library door. Tabitha was always a wily one: not only are there the typical anti-demon wards, but also ones against intrusion, regardless of species.

"Here," he says. Waving a hand, palm forward, in an arcing motion, he sends a bit of will at the wards, causing all of them to glow red, even the ones hidden.

"Thanks." She shakes the spray paint can and is about to step towards the wall again when she catches Crowley by the sleeve, stopping him before he can dart off again. "Oh. By the way: Devil's Trap in the front room. I broke it, but there might be others."

He's almost touched by the gesture, but a growling bark from above interrupts the moment. Pup is on his way.

"And away we go," he grins.

In the kitchen, he sends pots and pans shooting out of cabinets and clattering around. In a bathroom, he sends an ugly figurine of a mermaid through the glass shower pane. In a parlour, he pauses at a well-warded display case hosting what he's sure is a Dead Sea Scroll (one of the juicier ones that the Church has done its damndest to pretend doesn't exist. If the public only _knew_ the shenanigans some of their revered icons had gotten up to)—it's difficult to resist. It would make a fine addition to his collection. But alas, duty calls, and so he settles for raising up the baby grand piano a few feet before letting it drop down again. He does feel a modicum of regret at harming such a beautiful instrument—he can appreciate the finer things in life, after all. If nothing else, though, such wanton destruction should eliminate him from the suspect pool, should Tabitha decide to pursue retribution for the theft. This is certainly not his style.

Through all of the merry chase, the Hellhound follows, getting faster and faster at tracking him down with each stop. The pup has potential; it's a shame he's been relegated to such a domestic life. Crowley zaps himself to the library once more, finding it empty. So the girl got what she came for. He locates her at the front steps, hesitating at the bottom, her eyes focused on the sentinel statues down by the wrought-iron gates. When he appears next to her, she jumps back half a step in surprise, then exhales in relief.

"So, is our little smash and grab complete?"

Claire nods, adjusting the straps of her backpack on her shoulders. It's now bulging with whatever goods the girl has swiped from Ms. McCray. "Can you—?"

"Of course."

The hatchback is right where they left it, looking decidedly out of place on a street where Jaguars are par for the course. Claire unlocks the back door and sets the bag in, gently, making sure it is cradled amongst other items. Straightening up, she regards Crowley as if unsure what to say or do next.

"Do I even get a peek?" he asks, indicating the bag.

"Nope." She crosses her arms in a challenge.

He smirks, even if his curiosity is still piqued. "Good girl. Never show your hand if you can help it."

Claire nods, then looks behind her at the house. "How pissed do you think she'll be?"

"Livid. I look forward to hearing about this through Hell's grapevine." The girl smirks in agreement. "Well, Claire Novak, I suppose now is the point we part ways, swearing that if we ever see each other again, we'll kill the other, so on and so forth."

"Pretty much," she agrees. "But, if we do this again, next time I get to break stuff. You got the fun job."

"Duly noted." He turns away, ready to make his dramatic exit. "Send the sheriff my regards. Maybe this is enough to get in her good books."

"Doubt it," Claire half-apologizes.

"Probably right. Laters, Blondie. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

She squints at him. "You're a demon. What wouldn't you do?"

"Exactly. So have fun. Don't die."

Look at him, giving advice to the rugrat. He's grown soft in his old age. He snaps his fingers before his heart grows three sizes. Heart disease, it's a killer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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